


i got dreams of my own (but i want to make yours come true)

by vavafroome (spaceboy_niko)



Category: Cycling RPF
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, First Time Bottoming, M/M, celebratory congrats-on-your-first-tour sex, g's never had to pick an mvp before and he's really clueless, possibly questionable team sky post-race traditions, this started out as a team sky thigh appreciation thing and devolved from there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-04
Updated: 2018-08-04
Packaged: 2019-06-21 16:45:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15562095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spaceboy_niko/pseuds/vavafroome
Summary: Geraint has built himself up a reputation within the team – super domestique, yellow jersey-warmer for Chris Froome, everyone’s favourite Welshman, and the expert on the ins and outs of Froomey’s bed. That is, until he's thrown into the position of leading man and he's got to carry on the traditions.(This is terrible, and I'm sorry you had to see this)





	i got dreams of my own (but i want to make yours come true)

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by geraint thomas saying "fuck me" on live international tv after he finished the itt
> 
> this is only going up because i don't want this on my laptop for all eternity. i created a new pseud for this. what the fuck. what the fuck. title's from heaven's gate by fall out boy. what the fuck.

Geraint had learned very early on in his road-cycling career that in Team Sky, the domestique did everything for his leader. It had taken learning by example, though.

And walking in on Brad spread out on his back with Ian Stannard between his legs had been one hell of an example.

(“Wanna join, G?” Brad had said breathily with a wink, looking at him upside-down off the side of the mattress and beckoning. Geraint had watched for a few agonising moments, watched his dick bounce with every one of Ian’s movements, and shut the door, then went and took a cold shower before confronting them.)

He’d been a lead-out man for some of the greatest names in the Team Sky alumnus, and he could read them all like a book. From his first ten-second ejaculation into another man, much to Steve’s mirth, to having the wind knocked out of him by Cav flipping them over and riding him like a final sprint – he almost couldn’t count the number of times he’d had the honour of being the domestique the leader had raised an eyebrow at and jerked their head in the direction of the elevator, in the universal language of “Wanna shag?”

(Cav in particular was a bloody good lay – he had the fantastically huge thighs of the sprinter he was, and it took all of Geraint’s willpower to not come the instant Cav pushed him down onto his back and straddled him with legs almost the width of his torso. Geraint thought it was just a Cav thing, but when after his first yellow Chris Froome moaned and wrapped his time-triallist thighs around Geraint’s still-tender waist and pulled him in, he started to think it might be more of a _him_ -thing.)

He didn’t think he’d be anything but a domestique – he didn’t have anything to complain about with his current lot, and he was fast becoming a source of knowledge for the new domestiques, up there with Luke and Michal.

Luke had a little bit he liked to call the rules of domestique-ing.

“Rule number one,” he would announce at the welcome party for any new blood, “keep it in the team. Everyone knows everyone here, and therefore it’s the safest place for you.”

“But what about–“ Geraint would interrupt, and Luke would continue over him.

“Rule two: _no_ , G, you can’t go after Peter Sagan, no matter how much you want to congratulate him. We don’t care if you’re star-struck, just remember rule one.”

“But aside from you lot, what’s stopping me from–“

“Rule number bloody three: for _fuck’s_ sake, G, keep your sprinter fetish to yourself!”

Geraint would then give him the middle finger and take another sip of his drink, while the new boy would stiffen a bit in his seat. It was a bit of a laugh for them both.

So he kept doing what he was doing. He had a name within the team, after all. Geraint Thomas, super domestique, yellow jersey-warmer for Chris Froome, everyone’s favourite Welshman, and the expert on the ins and outs of Froomey’s bed.

And then things started going wrong for Chris, and Geraint didn’t know what to do with himself. Suddenly, he was the man everyone was protecting. Suddenly, he wasn’t just the jersey-warmer.

Suddenly, he was the team leader, and everyone was looking to him to bring them through to another grand Tour victory.

A tiny bit of him didn’t want to – he’d never been one to stray from his lane and do the unexpected. Plus, the thought of having to pick a domestique for the end of the Tour was a bit scary, to say the least.

But the larger, more rational part of him told him to suck it up and stop being a princess about it. If Froomey could do it – and Froomey was, for someone who grew up feeding live gerbils to snakes, a humongous wuss when it came to pain – then Geraint most definitely could. Also, winning the Tour? Wales had never heard the like. There were definitely more pros than cons to the situation.

Geraint had never had the honour of trying to pop open a champagne bottle while riding, but he could most definitely pretend to drink it like a sophisticated son of a bitch. There had to be a first time for everything. And the DS got it open for him eventually.

Post-cool-down, post-presentations, post-interviews, and post-massage, he showered not-too-hastily and dressed again. Not too shabby, better than his Team Sky t-shirt, but not too dressy. He knew whatever he wore was more than likely to get something spilled on it, and he didn’t speak enough French to get to a drycleaner.

He was, of course, the last one to arrive, and would have made one hell of an entrance if it wasn’t for Luke Rowe nearly tackling him to the floor and ruffling his hair with a vigour he hadn’t felt since he last went to a family reunion.

A fresh bottle of Moet et Chandon was opened with much less TV theatric – the hotel managers were not going to have a bunch of rowdy cyclists spilling champagne all over their nice function room – and it only took a glass and a bit for Geraint to start feeling a little less scared about what he had to do.

So he held onto his glass and surveyed the room. It shouldn’t have been a hard decision, really – he only had his pick of seven.

Gianni had gotten his stupid arse disqualified, so he wasn’t even in contention. And Egan was too new – he’d rather let him have a go with someone who had more experience winning. Castroviejo was a time-triallist. Geraint didn’t want to call their main time-triallist, who hitched a ride most of the time, his most valued rider.

Luke, Michal, Wout – all had potential, all were killer riders in their own rights, all had done their bit and more to keep him in yellow. Luke was starting to look pretty good when he did another sweep of the room and realised he’d forgotten someone.

Froomey mingled, like the personality he’d become over his illustrious career, but it was a practised mingle, shrouded in good-natured defeat. Geraint suddenly felt a little bad – this was Chris’ _thing_ , winning the Tour. And, when it looked like he could never win, he’d thrown all his efforts in to make sure it was still a victory in the team.

Geraint’s mind was made up.

He nodded at whatever the director was saying, and tried to catch Chris’ eye over his shoulder, until he’d failed too many times, and he drifted from the DS to one of the swannies.

He snared Chris’ attention in transit, and clapped the swannie on the shoulder, looking just past him at Chris and took a slow, deliberate sip of his champagne, raising an eyebrow invitingly and flicking his gaze to the exit.

Chris raised an eyebrow back and smiled.

Geraint chatted to the swannie until he noticed Chris make his unhurried way out, then waited until he thought it wouldn’t be suspicious and followed him.

Chris was waiting by the elevator, champagne flute empty and hanging between his fingers, and suddenly Geraint was very nervous.

“Are you sure?” was the first thing Chris said to him, all reassurance and calm, setting his glass down beside Geraint’s to place soothing hands on his shoulders.

Geraint took a deep breath. “I have no idea how to do this, but yes. I think so.”

“You know you can change your mind, right? You don’t have to do anything you don’t want. Trust me, after last year’s Tour, I just had Christian make me near on a hundred cups of tea. It was what I needed most then. This is whatever you want, G.”

The elevator hummed open, and Chris matched Geraint’s step in.

“Then I want this,” Geraint said, all air and almost no sound, and pressed his lips to Chris’ mouth as the elevator door closed.

He’d expected a bit more fight from Froome – the man was almost malleable under him, soft and following his movements. Geraint broke off with a frown, and Chris looked quizzical.

“I expected you to be a bit more fighty,” Geraint explained sheepishly.

Chris quirked an eyebrow. “I can be, if that’s what you want.”

Geraint must have looked intrigued, because Chris closed the gap again quickly, fisting Geraint’s shirt-front and hair in his hands and backing him against the side of the elevator, and that. Bloody hell, that was what Geraint wanted.

Geraint was messy-haired and out of breath when the elevator dinged and opened, and Chris led him out, as cool and collected as ever, into their shared hotel room, where their two single beds remained separate in a way that suddenly made him very worried.

“Oh, grow up, G, you’re not going to fall off the bed,” Chris laughed, catching Geraint by the hips again and pulling him in before becoming serious again. “How do you want to do this?”

“I’m normally on top–“

“I know. Is that what you want?”

“–but I want you to fuck me.”

Chris’ eyes widened. “You’re sure?”

“Wouldn’t trust anyone more.” Geraint wasn’t known for having a way with words, but those words would do for now as he tried not to look Chris in the eye.

“G, that is one of the most lovely and most sexy things I’ve ever heard you say,” Chris said in slight disbelief, thumbs rubbing Geraint’s hips, and kissed him again, mouth open and tongue exploring almost instantly.

Geraint didn’t register he was being moved backwards until he bumped into the bed and Chris’ grip tightened on his hips as he staggered, lowering him onto the bed instead of letting him fall. Geraint reached up and pulled Chris down with him, fumbling with buttons and belt-buckles as he kicked off his shoes and felt Chris tugging at his tie.

Chris ground his still-mostly-clothed dick against Geraint’s and smirked into his mouth as he made a soft noise and slid a hand in between them to quickly get himself up to almost fully-hard under his briefs.

With big, sweeping rubs of his hands over Geraint’s arse, Chris slid the dark trousers down his legs and tossed them over onto the other bed. “Shame I didn’t get to properly appreciate you in those. You’re gorgeous when you dress up.”

“Oh, shut up,” Geraint retorted, using Chris’ belt loops to pull him closer. “You’d rather me be out of ‘em than in.”

“True,” Chris conceded, and slid Geraint’s shirt off his shoulders, undoing his own cuffs with practised motions and shaking the sleeves off to join the pile of clothes.

Chris pressed another few kisses around Geraint’s mouth, then stripped off his underwear and slid off the bed to rummage in his bag.

“Oi, come back here!” Geraint said with half-hearted indignation.

“What, do you want lube or do you want me to fuck you dry?”

The sheer thought sounded painful. “Take all the time you want.”

Chris returned with a condom and a little bottle that he placed on the covers next to him. “How are we doing this?”

“I don’t know, this is your field. What’s going to hurt the least?”

Chris thought for a moment. “Hands and knees, probably. But if you want me to, I don’t know, kiss you through it or something–“

“Which I wouldn’t be opposed to–“

“–then I can probably prep you on your back.”

Geraint nodded, and slid his underwear down, erection catching against the elastic and landing flat against his stomach.

Chris nudged at his knee, and he obediently spread his legs wide, knees over the edges of the bed, a thrill chasing up his spine as he heard the pop of the bottle cap and felt the first finger trace at his entrance.

Geraint had done this a thousand times to his teammates, but never to himself. It was an odd feeling, to say the least – not unpleasant, it was only one – but it was enough to make him squirm. Chris set a firm hand on his hips and he stilled himself, waiting.

“How many do you think I’ll need?” he asked carefully.

“I never do less than three, but if you feel you need more, it’s your call.”

“Can I have another one, then?”

Chris withdrew his fingers and drizzled more lube on them, and when he slid them back in, a mild discomfort set in. Chris must have picked up on the hitch in Geraint’s breathing, because he kept his fingers where they were and moved back up to Geraint’s face, pressing soft kisses as he moved his hand and shushing the noises Geraint made into his mouth as he scissored his fingers, searching for that right blend of pleasure-pain.

Geraint shifted under Chris, and all of a sudden the fingers inside him nudged a spot that sent fire up his nerves and made his dick twitch, leaking a lazy trail of precome across his stomach.

“God, what–“

“Prostate. That’s what it feels like, thank me later.”

Geraint was never masturbating with just one hand ever again. He’d known it existed, sure, and he’d had a few memorable occasions where he’d gotten their team leader off with a hand round their cock and a couple of fingers to their prostate, but he’d never thought to try it for himself.

Chris rubbed back over that spot a few times, in a way that made Geraint think he enjoyed watching his teammate come undone under him.

More lube, and then one more, and Geraint was starting to feel a bit antsy, like he needed something more. Wrapping a hand around his dick, he rubbed his thumb over the tip, collecting his own precome and leaving a glistening trail from foreskin to base, before sliding back up with a twist of his wrist. It was slow, almost painfully slow, but he didn’t want to distract himself too much from the burning stretch.

“Alright there?” Chris asked with a grin.

“Absolutely peachy. Would be better if you fucked me.” He emphasised the word with a tug on his foreskin, exposing the glistening head and smirking up at Chris.

Chris leaned over him and kissed his cheek while he grabbed a tissue and, sitting up, wiped his hand off. “Okay, okay. Hands and knees for me, then.”

Geraint obediently rolled over and settled onto his elbows, listening to the crinkle of foil behind him and another pop of the lube cap. Chris settled those wonderful thighs around Geraint’s hips as he slowly began to press in, and if Geraint had thought three fingers was a stretch, he was sorely mistaken.

He took what felt like a few inches, trying to steady his breathing, before choking out a breathless, “Wait a second.”

From the waist up, it must have looked like Geraint was practising for a time trial – elbows tucked in, hands curled loosely over each other between the pillows, head bowed low and trying to steady his breathing. From the waist down, where Chris’ thighs bracketed his own and his hard cock pressed nearly halfway into Geraint’s not-quite-saddle-sore arse, it was a whole different story.

“D’you want me to move, or–?” Chris murmured hesitantly, and Geraint forcefully shook his head.

“Give me another minute,” he gasped, still trying to get used to the feeling of Chris inside him. He’d been on the other end of the bargain countless times now, but as far as this whole another-guy’s-cock-in-your-arse-thing went, he was practically a virgin.

He shifted on his elbows slightly, gripping and re-gripping the edges of the pillow and the fitted sheet, trying not to press too far back up against Chris as he tried to find somewhere comfortable.

“Relax, G. You’re so tense, I can feel it. This is time for you to slow down and enjoy yourself. You’ve been racing for three weeks, you can afford to take your time now.”

Geraint let out a shuddery breath, sinking further down onto his elbows and looking over his shoulder at Chris. “I think I’m okay now.”

Chris dutifully slid further in, and Geraint kept his breathing slow and measured until he felt Chris’ hips press flush with his own.

“Let me know when you’re okay for me to move,” Chris said in a low reassuring voice, rubbing soothing circles into Geraint’s hips as he waited.

Geraint made a noise into the pillow. “Go slow?”

But the agonisingly slow pace Chris set wasn’t quite good enough. “You can go a bit faster. I’ll let you know when I’d like to be fucked into the mattress.”

Geraint could feel Chris roll his eyes as he went quicker, short sharp thrusts that felt so close to his prostate he might die from the frustration, until–

“Jesus _fuck_ , Chris, there, there there there–“

And Chris delivered, and Geraint moved with him, aiming to land each thrust at that place that they both knew could make Geraint scream. He had deadly accuracy, and when he pulled out, flipped Geraint onto his back and slammed back in, Geraint let out a half-sob half-moan that he was sure could be heard from the room upstairs.

“C’mon, Froomey, faster, oh my god, fuck, there, yeah–” he panted, the continuous litany of words coupled with the sounds of the shifting bed and the slap of skin on skin forming a soundtrack to their fast-paced rhythm.

Chris wrapped a hand around Geraint’s dick and matched the upstrokes with his thrusts until, with no more warning than a choked gasp, Geraint came long and messy over his stomach, clenching tighter around Chris. Chris’ rhythm faltered slightly for a few more thrusts until he followed with a grunted “ _fuck_ , G!”

Geraint winced slightly as Chris pulled out, and gingerly closed his legs as he idly watched Chris tie off the condom and bin it before digging around the floor for sweatpants as makeshift pyjamas.

He grunted as Chris sat on his hips and wiped the cooling come off his stomach with a couple of tissues. “Jeez, you’re messy. I’ll have to grab a washcloth in a second so you’re not all gross and miserable tomorrow morning.”

Geraint made a noncommittal noise and smiled up at him, and Chris smiled gently back before heading into the bathroom. The water started running, and Geraint cautiously clenched and unclenched – nothing wrong there. Chris hadn’t left any marks on him, aside from maybe a few fingerprint-shaped beginnings of bruises here and there. He had nothing, really, to show for it.

Chris came back out of the bathroom and wiped his stomach down, laughing when his abs tensed at the water cooling in the air.

“Bite me,” Geraint said suddenly, tilting his head to one side and wondering why he’d allowed that impulse to be known.

Chris looked confused. “Why?”

“Because I want everyone to know that I got well fucked tonight.”

“They’ll know anyway,” Chris pointed out, but Geraint still drifted off with Chris’ mouth working at his neck.

Geraint woke up the next morning with a slight headache, Chris asleep peacefully in the other bed and, he learned when he tried to move, a total inability to sit on the bike today. Maybe tomorrow as well.

Chris tried (and failed) to hide his laughter when Geraint limped out of the bathroom, hair wet and love bite stark against his pale neck, but helped him down to breakfast anyway, and didn’t laugh too much when Luke wolf-whistled and made him show off the mark in front of the whole team.

Because he knew that as domestique, he did everything for his leader, except laugh at him.


End file.
